Advent means To Come

He was there already when I slid into my pew in the second to last row on the left side.  I’d never seen him before.  He was young.  Long dark hair covered by a light blue stocking cap that said “Detroit” in cursive letters across the front.  He wore a dark coat, and he kept trying to pull the sleeves down over his hands as if they were cold.  “I should give him my mittens,” I thought, and that thought kept popping into my head.  It was something I could do.  He did not kneel or stand but sat through the entire Mass with his head resting on his arms that lay stretched out along the pew in front of him.  On the floor was a big bottle of Sprite in a white plastic bag.  Maybe he is sick, I thought—hungover, and I felt for him.  I cast sidelong glances at him during the first few minutes of Mass.  Asian?  Mexican?  No.  He looked more like a Native American, and he either had a scar running down the side of his face or some very high cheekbones.  He looked rough and, from a distance, forbidding.  St. Mary’s Franklin Street is the poorest of the four Flint Catholic parishes.  We don’t dress up for church.  I see the same people in the same rags Sunday after Sunday.  But this man was from somewhere else.  I thought of the recent shooting at the Pittsburgh synagogue but then banished the thought.  Other members of the congregation seemed unfazed by the man’s presence.  Noticing their calm, I relaxed and felt happy that he had a warm place to hang out that offered peace after God-only-knows what kind of a night he’d had.  It occurred to me that my quiet presence in his pew was part of what made the church peaceful.  I was part of the “we” who were there for him without questions and without judgment.  Together we were like the great fish that swallowed Jonah and kept him undigested for three days and three nights.  Sure, we wondered who he was and where he’d come from; we are human after all. 

I listened to the priest talk about the reading from Isaiah—making the paths straight and the rough places plain by turning toward God.  Not all at once, but more the way a large jet plane circles around gradually so as not to crash.  “Don’t say you’ll set aside an hour for prayer.  You’ll never do it.  Try three minutes or five.”  While I listened, I was aware of some inward turning toward the man a few yards away.  I couldn’t wait for the sign of peace because then I would have an excuse to look at and maybe touch this mysterious stranger.  When the time came, I watched others gently approach him and saw that he was receptive.  I didn’t need to inch closer and extend my hand since there were many who welcomed him.  He didn’t need my greeting.  But here’s the thing:  I wanted to greet him.  I moved closer slowly, respectfully, ready for a rebuff, and in my motion was a question:  will you touch my hand?  He turned and faced me from an alcohol-scented cloud.  I looked him in the eyes.  His were brown and full of light, his smile genuine, and his damp warm hand clasped mine.  Neither his hand nor his eyes wanted to let go.  I felt that with certainty.  “Peace be with you,” I said.  Then I moved away and began to think about offering him my mittens after Mass.  

As the congregation stood up and moved down the aisles to receive communion, I walked out the other end of the pew so I didn’t have to disturb him.  His head was down again.  Maybe he is asleep.  Maybe he is praying.  Hush.  Hush.  “Peace be with you.”  I walked up the center, bringing up the end of the line, and I remember the blue stone necklace on the little lady with the dyed red hair, who offered me a broken piece of the host, “body of Christ.”  “Amen,” I answered, and took the jagged cracker in my hand.  I walked back to my seat and looked over expectantly, but the man was gone.  Gone!  I was sad.  I was lonely.  I knew in my heart that this man—here and gone—was Jesus.  I was overcome with longing to see him again, to sit near him, to wonder about him, and offer something, anything.  He probably would have refused my mittens, but maybe we could smile and look one another in the eye again, or just sit in the same pew feeling warmth and peace, waiting.  I wanted those eyes that held the light of the world to come back and be with me.  Emmanuel.  God with us.  I caught a glimpse of Him in the anonymous stranger.  I felt love.  The incident reminded me that we are all daughters and sons of God.  Why do we live in denial?  I think that blindness is necessary to live happily a life in which we serve only ourselves.  If we were to see the human face divine in every simple interaction, there would be no point in buying, in scheduling, in checking off items on our list, in surfing the Web.  We would wake up from a dream of separation and live at one with people, letting them be in all their created glory.  Christmas may come early to stores and to the homes of the American consumer, but in the church calendar, there is the season of "Advent."  We light one candle every night for the first week, two candles every night of the second week, three per night on week three, and then four.  This ritual reminds us to take time to Prepare the Way of the Lord!  Whoever the native stranger was, he taught me the meaning of making straight the path.  We do it when we open our hearts.  This is my resolution on the Second Sunday of Advent 2018.

Along Franklin Street there is a reproduction of the Mary, Mother of Flint icon and a place for passersby to kneel and pray.